


Assistance Required

by NiCad



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Eating Disorders, Gen, Helmet rules, Mandalorian Culture, Self-Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21868690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NiCad/pseuds/NiCad
Summary: Knowing he's in over his head, Din has rounded up the gang to head back to Nevarro and settle the score.He's about an inch away from murdering one of the crew and he can't remember the last time he's eaten.He's not ok.
Comments: 28
Kudos: 398





	Assistance Required

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during The Reckoning.
> 
> 1/2/2020 - Fixed Din's name. Pesky Pedro with his early name-drop making us re-do all the tags. ;)

_I don't mind stealing bread  
From the mouths of decadence  
But I can't feed on the powerless  
_

Temple of the Dog, [Hunger Strike](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VUb450Alpps)

* * *

“I’m not hungry.”

The droid left the flight deck. In truth, Din was famished, but he’d be damned if he took anything that droid handed him.

“Under no circumstances does that thing leave the ship.”

“You’ve got a real thing for droids, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

 _Not now, Cara_. “I’ve got a real thing for _that_ droid.” He could hear the Mando’a accent creep into his own voice, a slip that often happened when he was annoyed or angry. Cara tried to give him a line about Kuiil reprogramming it, but her words fell on deaf ears. He’d resigned himself to working with IG-11 when he had first crossed paths with it, before he’d known the true nature of his target, had even been concerned for it when it had gotten wounded and he’d wondered if it would be able to complete the mission. But the moment he’d discovered that the target was a baby, a helpless innocent, his world had turned upside down. Not for the droid. Nothing had changed for that. No amount of programming could have foreseen that contingency, and, mindless thing that it was, the droid had proceeded with the execution until Din put an end to it.

He trusted Kuiil implicitly, but there was no way the Ugnaught could plan for all possible scenarios, no way to program for moral decision-making. Sooner or later, the droid would fail. Din destroyed it once. He would gleefully do it again, given half an excuse.

Knowing this was an argument she would make no headway on, Cara hefted her rifle and left.

Din’s gut was in knots.

He’d snuck a few gulps of water an hour ago, but he couldn’t quite remember the last time he ate. And while he knew he was hungry, knew he should eat, his appetite was nowhere to be found.

He stared out the windscreen for a few moments, feeling the looseness of his clothes. He’d dropped some weight since taking on his tiny passenger, having far less time alone than usual to take the helmet off and eat in the privacy of his own ship. Self-denial was at the core of Mandalorian training, in a universe where eating and drinking were social activities among nearly all species. Everyone knew that when a Mandalorian walked into a bar, it wasn’t for the food, and there was a good chance that things were going to go bad. What no one really stopped to think about was what it took to smell it all the moment you went through the door, see all the food out on the tables when you came in, see all the drinks lined up, sit with a contact, watch them eat it, drink it, and be forbidden against all of it.

Thank god no one had yet figured out that the best way to torture a Mandalorian was to eat half a plate of bacon in front of them, leave the rest of the plate on the table, sit in the same room, and wait.

General practice was to go in on a full stomach. Keep a few extra pounds around the middle in case you had to go a few days without. Eat and get water when you got the chance. It usually worked out well enough.

But Din had been slipping up the last several months. Parental supervision meant waiting for the kid to fall asleep before stealing a quick bite. By the time they’d made it to Sorgan, he’d gotten into the habit of postponing an opportunity to eat if he was keeping an eye on the kid at the moment a meal was offered. The months since then were filled with lean nights. Jammed between caring for the kid and sacrificing food for parts and fuel for the ship, he’d grown used to collapsing in his bunk and falling asleep with that gnawing, vacant feeling in his gut. His one lucky break was that frogs for the kid had been easy to come by, and the image of the kid eating them whole turned out to be a good appetite suppressant. By the time he’d come back to pick up Cara, he’d noticed his ribs in the mirror, the sharper edges to his hips, and the hollows in his shoulders above his collarbones. He didn’t think he’d lost a terrible amount of muscle mass, but still.

It wasn’t good.

And it went beyond food.

Going back to Sorgan had been agony. He’d wanted nothing more than to see Omera again, hear her voice, hold her hands in his, but he hadn’t dared. That much temptation would have shattered him on the spot. He’d gone as far as taking an approach vector that avoided the village so she wouldn’t know he’d been there, gambling that he’d find Cara at the bar in town instead. Total denial of who and what he had left behind.

His stomach turned and he blinked, bringing himself back to the flight deck. He’d stashed a few ration bars and a water bottle up here a while ago for moments like these, for when someone was in the hold and he was up here, alone and hungry. They were in a drawer above the starboard jump-seat. All he had to do was get up, turn around, grab one, and lock the door. Somehow, the inertia of denial pinned him down, knowing he’d have to eat it quickly, unsure if he could keep it down, afraid it would all come back up into the helmet.

He swallowed. His mouth was dust.

To hell with it. He had to do this.

He hauled himself up, turned, pulled two bars and the water bottle out of the drawer, locked the door, and eased back into the seat. Taking one last listen to the conversation in the hold below and not hearing anything out of the ordinary, he put his hands to the helmet and lifted it off. He pulled off the gloves and placed them next to the helmet on the console. With all the enthusiasm of a man about to tame a blurrg that had bucked him off for an hour straight, he picked up a ration bar and pulled the wrapper open.

The bars lacked much of an aroma or flavor by design; less likely to attract critters when in the wild. He took half a bite, forced himself to chew it quickly, swallowed, and promptly gagged on it. Chasing it with water helped a little. What he wouldn’t give for a rare-cooked steak, an empty ship, and an hour of the safety of hyperspace to enjoy it all in. Instead, he was stuck with a cargo hold filled with three blurrgs, two people, one baby, and a droid, locked on his own flight deck and choking down a couple of tasteless ration bars as fast as he dared.

Despite the cramped conditions exacerbating this particular predicament, he understood that he needed help. The kid was turning into a handful and he knew he would be in over his head with whatever Greef had planned for him. He could think of no better people in the galaxy than Kuiil and Cara to have his back. Even if he didn’t deserve them, the kid did. He needed help.

But not from that fucking droid.

His stomach turned again and he paused, willing himself to keep it all down. _Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare puke all over your own boots._

His gut settled. He waited a few more moments, confirming things were fine, and he dumped more water into himself. He scarfed the rest of the ration bars, chugged the rest of the water, shoved the waste into the chute, and then pulled the gloves and helmet back on. Safely concealed, he sat back in the chair for a moment and closed his eyes. He’d only put two bars and half a liter of water down the hatch, but he felt stuffed. His gut rippled once more in protest, and finally stilled.

Just one more minute.

His chin dipped unbidden to his chest and he snapped back up, shaking himself awake.

Yeah, he really needed some help.

But god help him, he would end that droid if it offered him one more cup of tea.


End file.
